Stella Mia (27 page)

Salina

 

 

 

 

T
oday is All Saints' Day. I pray that it is a lucky day for me and that I will make some money. Standing at the marina in Santa Marina Salina, I am singing even though it is raining lightly. My straw hat is on the ground with a few liras I've placed inside to make it look like others have given me money. It is a cool day, and my shawl is doing little to chase away the shivers running down my arms. Although summer was not that long ago, it feels far away. I try not to think of those days. So far, my plan of coming to Salina in hopes of not being reminded of Carlo has failed. For every time I look at the sea, I'm reminded of the boat rides we took to the private coves of the islands. Whenever I walk by the few hotels here, I'm reminded of singing at the Villa Carlotta, then going out for the entire night with Carlo. The worst is when he comes to me in my dreams, often angry. Sometimes I dream that I am in his arms again, making love to him.

I have been in Salina for a month now, and the money Signore Conti gave me is rapidly diminishing. I am renting a tiny room from a widow. She is a greedy, miserable witch who would not include any meals with my rent. So I must make my food last as long as possible. My meals usually only consist of bread, fruit, and any little fish I can catch with my shawl. Lately, I've begun feeling dizzy from the lack of nourishment I am getting.

I'm suddenly drawn out of my thoughts and stop my singing when I feel my purse, which is slung around my body, drop to my legs. A sharp pain slices through my leg. When I look down, I see two gypsy boys. One is holding the knife he used to cut through my bag's strap and my leg, and the other takes my purse before they both run away.

“Stop! Someone stop them!”

My cries go unheeded even though several witnesses have seen what has happened. I chase the boys, but they are too fast for me. Bending over, I place my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. The cut on my leg is still bleeding. I rip off a piece of my skirt's hem and tie it tightly around my cut.

Standing back up, I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. I cannot believe my purse was stolen. That was all of my money. There wasn't much left, but it would've been enough to pay rent for the next two weeks. What am I going to do now?

Since we are well into autumn and the tourist season has long passed, I have not been able to give many tarot readings. I used some of the money from my last earnings at the Villa Carlotta to buy another deck of tarot cards since I gave my old set to Carlotta. I've had to be careful with the few readings I have given to the locals, conducting them out of sight of the other gypsies who hang around the marina. These gypsies are not kind and generous like Maria's family. They are hostile to newcomers who could take any of their business away. I tried to befriend some of the women when I first got here, but they shouted curses at me and told me to return to where I had come from.

I suddenly remember that, in my haste to chase the gypsy boys who stole my purse, I left my hat with my meager liras by the port. Running and praying that my hat hasn't been stolen as well, I breathe a sigh of relief when I see it's right where I left it on the ground. As I pick up my hat, tears spring to my eyes. I fight them back, refusing to cry any more than I have since I left Carlo. I need to be stronger. Taking a deep breath, I notice people are coming out of church. Maybe they'll feel more generous since it's a holy day today.

I approach an elderly man who's well dressed and is leaning on a very expensive-looking walking cane.

“
Mi scusi, signore.
Can you please spare a lira? My bag was stolen, and I have little money left. I will pray for you and your family.”

The man glowers at me and merely says, “You should be more careful,” and doesn't give me a second glance as he hobbles away with his cane.

A group of young men, probably about my age, walks by me. One whistles and stares at me from head to toe while the other dares to lift the hem of my skirt, revealing my thighs. I quickly pull my skirt out of his grasp. The third man comes close to me and whispers in my ear,
“Quanto, zingara? Eh?”
“How much, gypsy?”

I run away. I can hear them laughing. Rounding the corner, I take my time walking around the church, giving the vulgar young men enough time to have gone. Once I'm assured they're nowhere in sight, I wait at the foot of the church steps and resume my begging.

A beautiful woman who is on the arm of a young man walks by me. The woman is smiling shyly at whatever her beau has just whispered into her ear. I can remember when that was me, not too long ago.

“Excuse me. I'm sorry to trouble you, but can you spare a lira? My bag was stolen.”

The couple stops. The man looks slightly irritated, but the woman holds her hand to her mouth, astonished that I was robbed. She turns to her companion, giving him a pleading look. He pauses for a moment and then takes out a few liras and hands them to me.

“
Grazie. Grazie molto.
May God bless you.”

The woman smiles before the man leads her quickly away as if I have some contagious disease.

Today isn't the first time I've begged since I arrived in Salina. But at least now I have the more sympathetic excuse that my purse was stolen. Of course, many beggars lie to elicit more sympathy. But I refuse to do that.

I continue asking for money until the church has emptied, managing to scrounge up a few more liras. I count my money and sigh. It still is not enough for a full week's rent. I suppose I should get it over with and go explain to the widow that I won't be able to pay my rent.

When I reach the dilapidated one-story house, I see the widow is outside, hanging laundry. She is barely five feet and must stand on her toes to place the clothespins on her laundry. A black headscarf always covers her hair. I now see why. The wind kicks up the flaps of her scarf behind her head, and I can see only a few wisps of gray hair clinging to her bare scalp.

“
Signora Bruni
,”
I say in a very low voice, forgetting that she is quite deaf.

She doesn't even sense my presence since she continues hanging her laundry. I tap her arm.

“
Ai! Brutto diavolo!
Ugly devil!” She presses her palms to her chest, but when she sees it's just me, she says, “Ah! It's you! Why did you not just call me? You gave me quite a fright.”

I hold my tongue and dare not say I did call her.

“
Mi dispiace, signora
. I'm sorry. May I talk to you for a moment?”

“
Si.
But hurry. I have a lot to do.”

She turns her back toward me as she continues hanging her laundry. I don't understand why she has so much laundry since she lives alone. But then I notice she's washed all of the drapery and linens. I remember seeing the drapery and linens hanging from the clothesline a few days ago as well.

“My purse was stolen at the marina. Most of my money was in it. I'm afraid I don't have all of my rent for next week. Would it be all right if I paid you as soon as I have all of the money?”

“No,” Signora Bruni says in a sharp, clipped tone. Again, she doesn't give me her attention as she begins smoothing out the wrinkles from the wet bed sheets.

“I promise I will pay you as soon as I have enough money. Please! I have nowhere to go!”

I step in the widow's line of vision, forcing her to look at me, but she still keeps her gaze averted.

“That is not my concern. I have my problems, too.” She tosses her head as she says this.

Her indifference enrages me. Without thinking, I wave my index finger in her face, forcing her to finally look at me.

“
Strega!
You are a miserable witch! You cannot even show some compassion to a poor, starving girl who has no other place to go. I hope when you are shriveling in your old age no one shows you any compassion as you rot away.”

For the first time in the weeks I've known her, Signora Bruni finally shows emotion. She blanches at my words. I turn away from her and walk quickly toward the house to pack what few belongings I have.

She follows me into the house and watches me as I throw my clothes into my bag. No doubt she is worried I will steal from her.

As I leave, I give her an icy stare, but she remains silent. I'm sure I have frightened her with my curse. I feel a small sense of satisfaction, for I know how superstitious old Sicilian women are. She will not rest for days, maybe even weeks, wondering if my curse will come true.

Walking back toward the marina, I decide to go to the beach. I think about my confrontation with the widow. I regret that I'd only been paying her rent per week instead of for the entire month. If I had paid for the month, I would have a roof over my head right now. But I also would have starved since I barely would've had enough money left over for food.

The rain has finally stopped, but the sun hasn't come back out. The beach looks quite ugly when the sun is gone. My spirits have continued to sink deeper since I've come to Salina. Perhaps if I had found work at one of the few hotels or restaurants here, that would have kept me from pitying myself so much and from thinking about Carlo. I'm also scared. I don't know how I will provide for myself in the coming days with the little money I can scrape from singing and fortune-telling. And some weeks, I don't earn any money.

My desperation has even caused me to entertain the idea of returning home. What does it matter if my father kills me? I'll die here eventually from starvation if I don't find regular work. Shaking my head, I realize how silly I'm being. Perhaps I should just leave Salina. Go to a city, maybe even Messina. Though my father goes to Messina from time to time, it is quite a large city. I might not ever run into him. And even if I do, I will put up a fight if he tries to take me with him. A small smile slips my lips as I think about the scene.

Not a day goes by that I don't wonder what Carlo is doing. Then I run through the same questions in my head: How did he react when he heard I had left? Is he looking for me? Has he finally accepted it wasn't meant to be between us? Is Gemma still comforting him? Does he hate me?

I keep walking along the shoreline, oblivious to the chill. It isn't until I reach a hotel on the beach that I realize how far I've strayed from the marina.

Walking away from the shoreline, I walk toward the hotel that sits atop the bluff that overlooks the beach. I want to see if there is a shed or supply room to the side of the hotel that is unlocked and where I can possibly sleep for the night. But there are workers everywhere, preparing for what looks to be a wedding. Straining my neck, I can make out the bride and groom behind the window of the hotel's ballroom. The bride looks so happy. I can't seem to escape happy couples.

I leave but am too tired to walk all the way back to the marina. Sitting on the sand, I take out my tarot cards and spread them in a fan before me, hoping one of the hotel's guests might stroll by and ask for a reading. I don't see any gypsies here, so I should be all right out in the open.

 

An hour later, someone's voice awakens me, but I cannot understand what is being said to me other than “
ciao.
”

“
Ciao.
Are you all right? Do you hear me?”

“Ciao.”
I greet the man who's speaking in another language, which I believe is English. A tourist. Perhaps he wants a reading. I smile feebly, then point from my cards back to the man, hoping he'll understand I'm asking if he wants a reading.

“Oh! I'm sorry. You don't know any English. Let me switch to Italian.
Ti senti bene?
”

“
Grazie.
I feel fine. So you do know Italian. Would you like for me to read your fortune? I am very good at predicting what your future will be.” My desperate circumstances have led me to become more assertive and confident in my promises to potential clients. I remember, when I worked with Maria and her family, how reluctant I was to mislead anyone. Now near-starvation has forced me to lower my morals.

“No. Thank you. I saw you sleeping here, and you looked very pale. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

I cannot hide my disappointment, but I force myself to be polite. “Thank you,
signore
. I am fine.” I begin collecting the tarot cards I've laid out. It's getting late, and I should walk by a few of the restaurants that have alfresco seating to see if I can steal any food the guests have left behind before the waiters clear the tables. The man remains rooted in place, staring at me. As I finish picking up my cards, I notice his foot is bleeding.

“Do you realize your foot is bleeding,
signore?
”

He looks down. “Oh! You're right. I must've cut it on one of the pebbles on the beach. Would you look at that? It's bleeding a lot.”

I pull out of my bag a small jar of my homemade ointment.

“This will help it heal, but first let's quickly rinse your foot to clear some of the blood.” I stand up, taking him by the hand, much to the man's astonishment, and lead him to the edge of the water.

“The salt in the ocean will sting you a bit, but we have no choice unless you want to hobble over to the hotel and create a sight with the wedding that's going on.” I smile.

“Oh no! That's okay. They would probably laugh and call me ‘the stupid American'!” He returns my smile.

Laughing, I say, “That is true. They would call you that!”